


Mongrel

by Lennelle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Gore, Horror, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 15:11:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9825974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lennelle/pseuds/Lennelle
Summary: Sam stops being a kid when he's ten years old.





	

He's ten and a quarter years old when they stay in San Perlita, Texas. The little town is occupied by less than 700 people, so says the sign they passed on their way in. The first thing Sam thinks once he's out of the Impala's backseat and onto still ground is that it's quiet. Not that he's unused to silent little towns in the middle of nowhere, he's spent every year of his life hopping from one to the next. However, San Perlita is especially quiet, and the ground is perfectly flat, same as the houses that line the street they've stopped in. All identically strange little bungalows with dried out yellow grass framing the foundations.

"Are we living here?" Sam asks a little too hopefully. The homes are nice, the best thing being that they are _homes_ , not cabins or shacks or trailers. Real houses with front lawns and front doors and swing sets out back.

His dad pats his shoulder as he walks by. "No, Sammy. I just need to talk to someone here, okay? You boys wait in the car."

"It's too hot to sit in the car," Sam points out. He'd been sitting in there for the past six hours straight and he's not sure he could manage even one more minute. John is already making his way up to one of the houses, either he didn't hear Sam or he chose not to, and he knocks on the door and waits a moment. A middle-aged woman answers, glances down each end of the street anxiously and quickly invites him in.

Sam looks over to where Dean is leaning against the passenger door, arms folded across his chest. He's fourteen and already tall enough to double Sam in height, almost. Sam doesn't think he's grown at all in months, wonders if he'll ever grow again.

"I'm gonna take a look around," Dean announces. He walks the same way Dad does, like he's ready to get into a fight at any moment, like he owns the ground he walks on. Confident and wary at the same time. Maybe Dean has a cockiness that Dad doesn't, he hasn't yet achieved the same level of intimidation.

Sam, on the other hand, still trips up on his loose shoe laces, he has bad posture, he mumbles and mixes up his words in front of strangers. He's short and gawky and more bones than muscle.

He watches Dean stroll away and doesn't bother trying to stop him. Dean goes where he likes, most of the time.

Sam does as he's told and waits by the car.

The sun is insistent, beating down enough that Sam eventually has to seek shade under a dried-out husk of a tree. He finds a stick lying on the dusty grass and uses it to sketch zigzags and swirls into the dirt around him. There's still no sign of Dean or Dad after fifteen or so minutes and Sam sighs tiredly. He wants nothing more than a soft bed and something to fill his stomach, which is currently growling at him with insistence.

"Who are you?" a voice to his right says. There's a kid there, maybe a little older than Sam is, with a displeased look on his face. Sam quickly gets to his feet and shuffles off the lawn and onto the path.

"Sorry," he mumbles, and turns back to the Impala.

"Wait," the kid pipes up. He jogs over to Sam and breaks into a grin. "Didn't mean to scare you off like that, just that my mom told me to keep an eye out for intruders. There's been someone, or _something_ , hanging around these parts at night."

That sounds like something Sam is familiar with. He decides to play dumb. " _Something?"_ he asks.

"That's what I think, anyway," the kid says. He runs a tanned hand through his ink-black hair and leans in conspiratorially. "I think it's a monster."

Sam shrugs. "Monsters don't exist," he says. That's what Dad told him to do, don't ever let a regular person find out the truth. It only leads to chaos.

"Well, thinking like that is gonna make you monster chow," the kid says. He's still smiling, which unnerves Sam a little. He's caught on the boy's gaze, which is dark and intense, eyes shining like he's got a big secret to hide.

"I'm Sam," Sam says once the silence gets almost as stifling as the summer heat around them.

The kid slaps Sam on the shoulder hard enough to make him wince, then he hooks Sam under his arm and leads him back towards the lawn. "I'm Jake, Sam. Wanna play?"

Sam doesn't have much of a chance to even think about it before he's being herded into Jake's house. It's small and a little cluttered inside, but the rooms are bright and the whole place smells sweet like vanilla. Sam pauses by the doorway and glances outside. There's still no sign of Dean or Dad, so he removes his shoes and leaves them on the porch.

"We've got a pool out back," Jake is saying, disappearing into another room so quickly that Sam has to jog to catch up. "Well, not a real pool. It's one of those ones you have to blow up yourself but it's just as good as a regular pool, if you ask me."

Sam doesn't really have any idea what Jake is talking about, but he nods along anyway. Jake leads him through one door into the kitchen where a woman is beating a bowl full of frothy white mixture at the counter. She has the same tanned skin and dark hair that Jake does, and when she turns to face them her smile is just as brilliant.

" _Cariño,_ who is this?" she asks.

"This is Sam. I found him on the front lawn."

Jake's mother looks to Sam. Sam stutters, "I was – I was just sitting in the shade. I'm really sorry, ma'am."

She chuckles. "Don't worry, Sam. You're not in any trouble." She looks back to Jake. "Although, I wish my boy might be as polite as you."

Sam flushes, and it's not because of the heat. She's the exact picture of a real mother, at least, like the one he imagines in his head. Moms are supposed to smile a lot, they like to bake, they wear pretty dresses and they call you nice names like _cariño,_ whatever that means. Sam wonders if his own mother was like this. He doesn't have much to go on considering how tight-lipped Dean and Dad are, and how red-faced they get when Sam has the courage to ask.

"There are ice pops in the freezer if you would like one," Jake's mother says, nodding her head lightly towards them. Jake grabs a couple and lets Sam pick which colour he'd prefer. Sam sucks on the flavoured ice and watches Jake and his mother interact. It's a foreign concept to him, it's fascinating.

"We could go out in the back yard, if you like," Jake offers. Sam's so taken off guard that the conversation is being turned towards him that all he can do is nod. Jake grabs him by the wrist and pulls him out the kitchen door and straight onto the patio.

The back yard is long and slim, covered in the same yellowing grass that was out front. Right in the centre of the garden is a large blue kiddie pool, almost as tall as Sam is and round enough that it almost touches the dehydrated flowerbeds lining the grass. There's a ladder that hooks over the side and Jake is already running towards it, stripping down to his swim trunks, he jumps in with a splash.

Sam feels the cool spray on his face and bursts out into laughter.

"Come on in!" Jake calls, waving his arms about like a lunatic. He leaps up and dives back in dolphin-style. Sam takes a few steps closer and leans on the pool's rim, he dips his finger into the cool water and watches the ripples dance away. Jake resurfaces and promptly squirts a mouthful of water into Sam's face. He stumbles back, wiping it from his eyes, and once his vision is clear enough to see Jake's laughing face, he can't help but join in.

They play like that for a long while – Jake dipping in and out of the water to try to squirt Sam in the face, meanwhile Sam ducks behind the pool wall and leaps up to splash the other boy – and despite Sam not getting in the water once, he's tremendously wet by the end of it. The end being heralded by his father crying his name out in the street.

"Uh oh," Sam mumbles.

Jake is still grinning, trying to catch his breath. "What is it?" he asks.

Sam swallows and ducks his head, already inching back towards the house, towards his dad's calling. "I have to go."

He hurries as fast as he can when his father calls for him again, this time bellowing enough that even Jake pays notice. Sam makes his way back through the house, zipping past Jake's mother too quickly for her to even ask what's the matter. He stumbles out onto the front porch, his father is across the street, a couple of houses along, and he turns when he hears Jake's front door slam closed behind Sam.

"Sam!" he barks. He marches across the street and stops on the path.

Clearly, Sam is meant to go to him. He quickly yanks his sneakers onto his feet and makes his way over, moving slower the closer he gets, the clearer the anger on his dad's face becomes. John grips Sam's shoulder and forces him to meet his gaze.

"Sam, I told you. I _told you_ to wait by the car!" he says. He sounds less mad now, more worried than anything. "Sam, you know what dangers are out there, I'd have thought you'd know better than to wander off on your own, especially when I'm working a case."

"Sam?" Jake's voice comes from behind. John and Sam turn to find the boy sopping wet and leaving a trail of watery footprints on the concrete beneath him. His mother appears on the porch, eyeing John seriously.

"Are you alright, Sam?" she asks. "Do you know this man?"

"He's my dad. I'm okay, ma'am."

John straightens up, not loosening his hold on Sam's shoulder. "Sam ran off without telling me," he explains. "I was worried when I got back to find him missing."

Jake's mother still has a slight sour expression on her face as she looks at John. After a moment, she says, "He was safe here. Not any trouble at all. He's welcome to stay for dinner if he likes."

"Maybe another time. We're late enough as it is," John replies, the last part being directed at Sam. Without so much as a farewell, John steers Sam back towards the Impala where Dean is leaning against the trunk with an amused look on his face. With a quick glance over his shoulder, Sam manages to wave goodbye to Jake and his mom.

Back in the thick heat of the Impala's confines, the engine running, John dives straight into the lecture. He's sharp and irritated, the worry finally wearing off, and by the end of the drive Sam is forcing back tears.

* * *

They pull to a stop in a sparse trailer park, right in front of one of the lots at the edge, closer to the surrounding fields than the other trailers. A man is sitting on the front step with an unhappy look on his face. Dad gets out and retrieves a key from him, the two barely exchange a word before the man is trudging off to his silver car, still looking pissed and sunburned.

Sam suspects this is what they were late for. John signals Sam and Dean over.

Sam's first thought is that the trailer looks a little rusted, but once he's inside he determines that the heat will be the worst of it. Of course, Dean gets first choice on where he sleeps, being the oldest and all, not that Sam is bothered whether he sleeps on the top bunk or not.

Immediately, John begins rifling around the cupboards and produces a couple of pots, which he empties the contents of two cans of baked beans into. He had stopped off at a gas station on the way into town and picked up mostly tinned foods, a plastic bag of on-sale bread, some peanut butter and a bottle of liquor.

That evening they dine on the beans, some bread their dad toasted over the hob, and whiskey. Well, Sam and Dean aren't allowed whiskey, but that doesn't stop Dean from taking a sip when their dad's back is turned.

He lays in bed that night with the covers kicked to the floor, listening to insects buzz at the mesh over the windows, the soft breeze running through the trees, the sound of Dean snoring above him. He gazes at the untouched sky, crowded with stars like a smattering of shattered glass. The moon is gentle, only a slither of white in the night sky. The sound of crickets lulls him to sleep.

* * *

The next day is the last before he begins at a new school. Most of the morning is spent lying under the shade of a giant oak tree in the field beside the trailer park, he's too hot and sticky to even bother opening his eyes. Dean is busy shooting the baked bean cans from last night off a crumbled brick wall. Meanwhile, their dad has been gone since dawn.

By midday, Sam is hungry enough to leave the safety of the tree's shade and make a dash back for the stifling trailer. Dean scoops melting globs of peanut butter out of the jar and smears them over slightly stale bread, but Sam eats every bite, even licks the buttered remains from his fingers, then he hops back outside for his tree.

Dean trails behind him, twiddling his pocket knife in his fingers. He stops and points to the distance.

"What's that?" he asks. Sam squints, the summer heat wrinkles the horizon, shimmers it until it looks like the ocean, but after a moment Sam can make out the shape of a building.

"Looks like a barn," he says. Dean changes course and heads in that direction, Sam has no choice but to follow. After a long walk that leaves them both sweating through their t-shirts and breathless on the thick air, they finally reach the barn. It's abandoned, that much is clear from the small caved-in section of roof. The door is locked, but that's no obstacle for Dean who takes no time jimmying it open with his knife.

Inside is blessedly cool. Dean lets out a low whistle and the two of them marvel at the size of the place. It must have held more than a hundred animals, once. There are rusted old scythes hanging on the walls, and up a ladder is a second floor. Dean puts his hands on the lower slats of the ladder and gives it a shake. With a small shrug, he begins to climb.

"Wait!" Sam yelps. Dean pauses a quarter of the way up and raises his eyebrow at Sam. Sam says, "this place is real old, Dean. The ladder could snap in half and you could fall."

Dean snorts. "Such a girl, Sammy," he says, and keeps climbing. Sam watches with his breath held, not letting it out until Dean has finally reached the top. He stands up and raises his fists in a victory stance.

"What's up there?" Sam asks curiously. Dean disappears from his sight, the wood creaking beneath his feet.

"Why don't you come up here and find out?" Dean calls back.

"I don't want to climb up there."

"Like I said, such a girl."

"M'not a girl!"

"Are too."

"Am not."

"Are too!"

"Am – "

He's cut off by a familiar rumbling sound in the distance. Dean pokes his head over the edge of the railing. In the next moment, he's climbing back down the ladder at record speed, he grabs Sam's arm and yanks him along after him. Sam isn't entirely sure why they're running, or what the hurry to get back is. By the time they make it back to the trailer, Sam is folded over his knees and gasping for breath. Dean marches right past him, spine straight, chin up.

Their dad doesn't look very happy.

"Where were you?" he asks Dean sharply.

"Just on the other side of the field, sir," Dean replies quickly. "I was keeping an eye on Sam the whole time."

"I told you to practise your aim, Dean. You know better than to wander off in the middle of a hunt without a weapon."

Dean glances at the hand gun he'd abandoned on a table out front. John picks it up and examines it.

"At least you had the good sense to turn on the safety, but it was damn stupid to leave it lying out here. It was even dumber to wander off with your little brother, unarmed, when something out there is bloodthirsty. Sam would be an easy target, you realise."

"Yes, sir. It won't happen again."

"No. It won't."

Sam isn't completely sure what they're talking about. He's known the truth for almost two years, and he still hasn't really seen any big, bad monsters up close, only the leftovers once his dad's through with them. John won't take him hunting, which seems unfair to Sam since he knows Dean was doing it before he was ten years old. Sam would also like to point out to his father that if it's so unsafe for Sam to be unprotected, then maybe John shouldn't leave them alone so often. Aren't the parents supposed to look after the kids?

He's smart enough not to say this out loud, but in his head he's yelling at his dad.

Dean has turned back to target practise, completely ignoring Sam's presence. It's clear that he's mad by the tight set of his jaw and the way he hits every target more times than he needs to. Sam tiptoes back into the trailer. He'd rather not get on anyone's bad side.

His dad is brewing coffee in the kitchenette. His suit jacket and tie have been abandoned on the back of one of the chairs. On the table, papers and photographs are spread over the surface. Sam leans forward to take a look and almost instantly regrets it. A lot of red ink must have been used to print these.

Most of the pictures seem to be animals, cats and dogs all torn up with their insides hanging out. On one Labrador, _Lucky_ is visibly inscribed on a bone-shaped collar tag. Lucky didn't live up to his name, sadly.

It isn't pleasant, but Sam has seen blood before, mostly spattered over his dad's face when he stumbles back into their motel room at 4am. And he's seen dead things before, animals and monsters. He's never seen a dead person, not even in a picture.

Not until now.

She's young. Very young. Smaller than Sam is, maybe. She looks like the dogs and cats, like a used-up rag doll, but someone has stitched her back together and cleaned her up. The shots are all snippets, her arm, her leg, her collar, her face. Each photo illustrates a grislier wound than the last.

"What do you think?" his dad asks, resuming his seat at the table.

Sam doesn't speak for a moment, waiting for a scolding. He's not allowed near dad's journal, or the weapon bag or the police documents. Sam often wonders what he did to lose his father's trust. Why can Dean be a part of this hunter's world, while Sam is left stranded between it and a normal life, not really belonging in either?

"What?" Sam has already forgotten his father's question.

John taps the pictures on the table. "What do you think?"

The first words that come to mind are _horrified, afraid, sickened, sad._ But that isn't what John is asking. He leans forward to get a better look. He points to the gnawed leg of a tabby cat, purposefully avoiding any piece of the dead girl.

"That's a bite mark, something with big teeth," he says, then guides his finger to the split stomach. "This was done with claws. Um, which organs were missing?"

John is smiling slightly as he looks at Sam, then he hands over a veterinary report. Sam flicks through it. _Drained of blood_.

"Um, the damage makes me think werewolf…"

"But?" John prompts.

"But, if these were recent deaths, there hasn't been a full moon in a couple of weeks. And, uh, werewolves eat hearts, right? They don't care about drinking blood."

"So, what do you think it is?"

Sam closes his eyes and tries to think, mentally flicking through all the books he read at Bobby's house, all of the things his dad has told him over breakfast in roadside diners.

"Chupacabra?" he guesses.

"And why do you think that?"

"They originate from South American countries, and since we're close to the border maybe one wandered north. But… they usually just feed on cattle and livestock, right? This one killed a girl…"

"There's no point questioning monsters, Sammy. They don't have a conscience, they don't have reason. To this monster, that girl was just meat."

Sam shudders, trying to avoid looking at the photos. His dad pats him on the back and grins.

"You're going to make a great hunter one day."

**Author's Note:**

> To be continued.


End file.
